


By Your Hand // Or By My Own

by catawhumpus (ironmermaidens)



Category: Hermitcraft
Genre: Abusive Relationships, Dubcon Kissing, Fingers in Wounds, Gore, Hair Pulling, Impermanent Character Death, Intimate Whumper, M/M, Second Person Perspective, Stabbing, bax (bastard apathetic xisuma), malicious praise
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-10
Updated: 2020-11-10
Packaged: 2021-03-08 22:08:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,726
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27484006
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ironmermaidens/pseuds/catawhumpus
Summary: He loves you, and you know he loves you, even if he has a funny way of showing it sometimes. // Xisuma loves you, but you’re not always sure how real it is because it’s nothing like the way thatheloved you.(Formerly titled "The Horror of Our Love")
Relationships: Apathetic X/Evil X, Xisuma/Evil X
Comments: 1
Kudos: 37





	By Your Hand // Or By My Own

By Your Hand _/  
_

He’s not an altogether affectionate person, but you love him nonetheless. When he presses his lips against yours, gentle and lazy as he is in all his pursuits, you devour him greedily. You drink in every drop of him that he gives you. It’s little more than table scraps, but to your starving mouth it tastes divine. Your face flushes hot when you feel his mouth quirk into a crooked smile at your desperation, but you don’t pull away. You never do. Your fingers hold his sleeves tighter, begging him not to let go. Sometimes he pulls away with a cruel, derisive chuckle, but today you feel his head tilt ever so slightly, his tongue responding to yours, and if your lips weren’t connected with his you’d cry out in gratitude. Instead, a soft whimper forms in the back of your throat. You hear it echo back at you in a mocking edge that you do your best to ignore. You focus on the hand stroking your cheek, his lips upon yours, and you know that he must love you too, to be so indulgent of your pathetic desires.

And it hurts when you feel a blade pierce the flesh of your stomach. It hurts when his fingers curl into a fist in your hair, tugging so hard it feels as though he’s ripping it from your scalp. It hurts when his lips keep kissing yours, his hand fisted in your hair denying you escape, denying you the air you want more desperately than his table scraps. It hurts to be his plaything.

He presses the sword deeper. You whimper again, pleading now rather than grateful. He presses the sword deeper. Your hands on his shoulders push instead of pull. He presses the sword deeper. You don’t dare to bite his lip. He presses the sword deeper.

You can feel the quillions now, digging into your flesh as if they too were trying to bury themselves in your gut, as if the blood pouring out of you was not enough to quench their thirst. Another pleading whimper crawls up your throat, and this time you feel the fingers tangled in your hair loosen their grip. You open your eyes, and your vision is blurry. You feel his palm cup the back of your head, and you’re so woozy, so lightheaded, you let yourself relax into his touch. By his hand and his sword you’re kept on your feet.

You feel his mouth against your jaw, his stubble scratching your skin in a way not altogether unpleasant. You realize you can breathe again, if you so choose. You suck in a ragged breath, and you feel him suck on your Adam’s apple as you do. You exhale, and you hear him shush you as you do. You take another breath, but his lips are upon yours again before you can release it. With whatever strength you have remaining, you return the kiss. You feel his mouth twist into a crooked smile. Your face stays cool and clammy. You don’t pull away. You haven’t the strength left for that. You barely have the strength to gasp as the blade twists as cruelly as his smile. 

His mouth moves up your jaw, his stubble scratches your skin. You feel his lips against the shell of your ear, and you shiver. His voice is low, an intimate tone saved for an intimate moment. Saved for a lover. Saved for you.

“C'mon, Exxy,” he says, the nickname making you whine. “Be a good boy and cry for me.”

You whimper and he clucks his tongue at you, another shiver raking your body at the sound. Your knees feel weak. The quillions press into your gut and you gasp again, your muscles seizing against the pain. Your head lolls to the side, and you register something brushing against your cheek. His thumb. It glides gently against your wet skin and you realize you’ve obeyed his command. You hardly feel the tears, can’t distinguish whether the blurring of your vision is coming from them or from blood loss. 

You focus on his gentle touch, so soothing you nearly miss it when the sword tears back out of your gut. You fall against him without it to hold you up. You fall to your knees and you drag him down with you. Your head falls to his shoulder, to the crook of his neck, where your blurry eyes watch his bloody hand press against your bloody belly. You feel his fingers press into your flesh, and every cry you’ve ever suppressed over every kiss he’s ever deigned you worthy of escapes at once. His fingers dig deeper into you, drawing more sobs out of you along with your draining blood until there’s nothing left to draw from.

And from the cusp of consciousness you hear him say, “Good boy.”

/ Or By My Own

Xisuma isn’t _him_ , but they look so much alike, sound so much alike, sometimes you forget that there’s a difference. Of course there’s a difference. The way his fingers brush against your own whenever you stand close, the way he laughs at your jokes and not your pain. There’s a world of difference between them, but they look alike, they sound alike. Sometimes when Xisuma brings his lips near your skin you can’t help but tense, hold your breath until it’s over, your eyes flicking to his empty hands periodically.

And he notices your hesitance. Of course he notices it. He hesitates in turn, until Xisuma’s lips find your own as scarcely as _his_ did. You’re no more worthy of Xisuma’s affection than you were of _his_. You savor every kiss you receive as much as you dread them. You’re tense, you hold your breath, and your eyes flick to his empty hands periodically. You curl your fingers into his sleeves to hide the way they shake, and when he pulls away you let him go. And you sigh. And you’re relieved. You’re relieved that it’s over. You’re relieved it happened at all. 

When he presses his lips against yours next, gentle and kind as he is in all his pursuits, you allow yourself to relax. You drink in every drop of him that he gives you, and when you’ve emptied your cup he pours you another. He gives you so much more than you deserve, and you greedily ask for more. You feel his mouth quick into a crooked smile at your desperation, and suddenly you feel tense. You hold your breath. Your eyes flick to his hands.

Your heart stops at the sight of a sword held loosely in a hand that’s meant to be empty. His right hand, because Xisuma is a righty, just as _he_ was. You feel the thumb of Xisuma’s left hand stroking your cheek, just as _he_ did. You flinch away from his touch, and Xisuma pulls away from you as if burned by your reaction. He hesitates. A soft whimper forms in the back of your throat. 

And it hurts when he drops his hand to his side. It hurts to see him step away from you. It hurts to feel the empty air against your lips. It hurts to be so unworthy of his love.

“No,” you choke out. He hesitates. It’s your opportunity to prove yourself to him. You’re determined to prove yourself to him. To prove that you’re worthy. To prove that you deserve him. That you deserve his love. You take two quick steps towards him. 

You feel the bite of the blade against the palms of your hands as you grab it. Xisuma cries out and tries to pull the sword from your grip. You cry back as the blade slices into your fingers. He hesitates. The blood slicking your hands makes it difficult to hold the blade, but his hesitance is your opportunity to prove yourself to him. You pull the sword towards yourself until you feel the blade pierce the flesh of your stomach. Xisuma cries again. “Evil X!”

“Please,” you respond. 

You pull the sword deeper. The blade bites into your flesh as you tighten your hold. You pull the sword deeper. Xisuma begs you to let go. You pull the sword deeper. He tugs on the grip until the bite of the blade pulls another pleading whimper from you. You pull the sword deeper.

You can feel your own hot blood pouring over the crossguard, over your already bloody hands, just as you can feel Xisuma’s heavy breath against your forehead. You glance up through your lashes at him. He looks stricken, and you wonder what’s wrong. “Please…”

You realize you’re close enough to kiss him, if you so choose. You press your lips against his. He hesitates. You can’t help another pleading whimper that crawls up your throat. You let go of the sword and grab hold of his sleeves. By your own hands and the sword you buried in your own gut, you’re kept on your feet.

You press your lips against his again, but he’s no more responsive this time as he was the first. You cry out, and you know there’s tears on your face as you do. You press your cheek against his to make sure he feels it too. “Please. I can be good. See? I can be good.”

“Evil X,” Xisuma whispers. You feel his fingers threading through your hair, his palm cupping the back of your head, and you smile at your victory. You loosen your grip on his sleeves. You haven’t the strength left to hold on. 

The sword tears back out of your gut. You fall against Xisuma without it to hold you up. You fall to your knees and you drag him down with you. Your head falls to his shoulder, to the crook of his neck, where your blurry eyes watch his hand press against your bloody belly. He puts pressure there and it hurts, but it doesn’t hurt as much as having _his_ fingers inside you, but it hurts so much more. You suck in a ragged breath, and no scratching stubble, no teeth on your throat accompany it. 

“It’s alright, Evil X,” Xisuma says. “It’s alright. He can’t hurt you anymore.”

And from the cusp of consciousness you hear him say, “Please don’t do it for him.”


End file.
